the rent wouldn’t matter.
neither would taxes,
or emails
or parking tickets
or my neighbor’s yappy dog
named Pesto.
or cancer.
the zombies
would come shambling
down Main Street
and I’d sit on the hood
of my rusted-out Honda
with a warm beer
and a cigarette
that doesn’t care
what year it is.
nobody would ask
what I do for work.
nobody would tell me
to smile more.
nobody would post
sunsets on Instagram
with filtered grief.
it’d be me,
a baseball bat,
maybe some canned peaches,
and silence—
real silence,
the kind you can taste.
the irony is:
only when the world ends
do I feel
completely
alive.